Glass Prisons
by inK.AddicTion
Summary: Mycroft struggles with understanding his relationship and feelings. Greg knows.


**Title- Glass Prisons**

**Description- Mycroft struggles with understanding his relationship and feelings. Greg knows. **

**Rating- M (May as well err on the side of caution)**

It had been a long, tiring day. Greg wanted nothing more than to go home and cuddle Mycroft until he fell asleep, but his lover was out of the country on business, not due to come back until Wednesday at the least.

Greg rubbed his forehead tiredly, staring dully at the door to his shitty, run down flat. Most of the time he stayed with Mycroft in his airy townhouse at the politician's insistence, it was better protected and bigger. Every time he came back to the apartment, it seemed to become greyer and more depressing without Mycroft's presence.

He managed to fit his key into the lock, too tired to bother when he realised it was already unlocked. A moment longer, he stared at the open door, while his brain kicked into gear.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, what do you want now!" He'd spent all day catering to the whims of the insufferable genius, and now Sherlock had even broken into his flat to annoy him?

He stalked inside, throwing his coat off. The lights were low, but Greg saw that Sherlock had helped himself to the bottle of wine Mycroft had given him at their last dinner at the shit flat. He growled furiously, the sound low and threatening in his throat.

There was a short, swift inhalation, and suddenly a body slammed into him from the darkness, and eager lips crashed into his, biting hungrily, hard enough to draw blood. Greg hit the wall hard, and he gasped. His attacker immediately took the opportunity to slide his tongue into Greg's mouth, deftly probing, exploring, taking, plundering Greg's mouth with remorseless hunger.

The body was male, strong arms pinning him with ease to the wall, short nails digging into the skin of his wrist. Greg groaned despite himself.

He attempted to fight back, push away, but all that happened was the invincible steel of his attacker's body tightened, and he earned himself a savage bite on the neck for his trouble. Greg hissed in pleasure.

"_Not...Sherlock..." _a familiar voice gasped breathlessly in his ear, swiftly followed by desperate little bites on Greg's neck.

"Mycroft," Greg managed to gasp out.

Shuddering, Mycroft nodded jerkily against his shoulder.

"But you...you're not supposed to be back until Wednesday..." Greg shifted, and Mycroft's fingers tightened convulsively on his arms. The politician groaned, his long neck pale in the dim light as he threw his head back.

"Back...early..." Mycroft punctuated each word with a fierce kiss, "couldn't...wait...for...you."

It was very rare for Mycroft to be the aggressor in physical situations. In fact, he generally was largely uninterested in sex altogether, and they rarely had sex more than once a month, if that. For Mycroft to suddenly be as eager and restless as a young boy was almost alarming.

Something didn't ring right with Greg.

Gently, he pushed his lover away. "Go sit down, yeah?" he murmured. Mycroft obeyed silently, and Greg switched the lights on.

Mycroft was positively undressed, for Mycroft. He wore his suit trousers and shirt, but his socks, tie, top button, waistcoat, shoes, pocket watch, cufflinks, jacket, pocket kerchief, and umbrella were all missing. Greg's suspicions increased when Mycroft avoided his eyes.

"You alright, My?" he asked, concerned. He kicked off his shoes and padded over to his lover, joining him on the couch. Mycroft raised his chin defiantly.

"Yes," Mycroft stated flatly. His face was carefully blank. Greg was undeterred, knowing that it was his defence mechanism whenever he was unsure or nervous- a habit he was doing his best to break.

"What's this then?" he asked gently, gesturing to his state of undress and obvious arousal. "You're not...usually..."

Mycroft sighed impatiently. "Gregory, I am fully functional adult male. It is natural that I experience sexual arousal and the desire to fulfil it." He spoke clinically.

"Stop bulshitting me, Mycroft," Greg said impatiently. "Did you...did you take something?"

Mycroft's silence was all the answer he needed.

Greg sighed tiredly. "Why, Mycroft?"

Mycroft's eyes were carefully guarded as he stared straight ahead, refusing to look at Greg. "You are showing signs of increased stress and wear, your hands are trembling more than they usually do in the morning. You have a shorter temper and your muscles involuntarily tense when you think. You are not sleeping well, there are stress lines around your eyes that weren't there before, and by the look of the bags beneath them it has been going on for a while. Your hair has grown out slightly, you like to keep it short, you haven't bothered to go to the hairdresser recently. Your clothes are cheap, shabby, you are no longer trying to make an effort with your appearance. You keep fumbling with your ring finger, you are missing your wedding ring and searching for it subconsciously."

He looked down a little, his eyes sliding away from Greg's slightly awestruck expression. He never could quite defeat the awe Mycroft's deductions, even if they were obvious, raised in him. He imagined it was how John must have felt like with Sherlock.

"You are increasingly sexually aroused in the morning but are no longer satisfied with handling yourself in the bathroom. Your eyes linger on other people when you think they are not looking and you subconsciously wet your lips whenever you look at me. Apart from today, the Yard's caseload has not been above normal and you are resting and eating sufficiently. It is not your professional life." He took a deep breath.

"It is your private life. You are sexually neglected by your partner, but you...love him and considering your experience with your wife, you wouldn't consider cheating, but more often...you find yourself dissatisfied with...with me...I am-"

Greg had heard enough. He leaned forward and captured Mycroft's lips in a soft kiss, stopping his words. Mycroft was still, obviously surprised. Greg pulled apart and rested his forehead against Mycroft's.

"That doesn't mean you had to take a drug, My," he whispered.

"It was the most logical solution." Mycroft murmured, his eyes still not meeting Greg's.

"Look at me," Greg urged softly. Mycroft swallowed, but did as he was bid. "What's this really about?"

Mycroft blinked. "I told you, I wished-"

"I don't give a damn about how sexually frustrated you think I am. You wouldn't have done this if you didn't have a stronger reason." They both had been fine with things as they were beforehand, Greg accepted with ease that Mycroft had little interest in sex for himself, but he was perfectly capable of bringing Greg off and had a wicked habit of making Greg experience earth-shattering orgasms simply for the pleasure of watching him come undone. Since being together with Mycroft, Greg had had more sex than he had had in decades.

"I...I wanted you...not..."

Suddenly Greg understood, and he felt a rush of emotion for Mycroft. "Were you worried I'd leave you if you didn't want to participate with me?"

Mycroft was quiet.

"Oh Mycroft," whispered Greg. "Never think that. It's not true. Don't be an idiot, yeah?"

"I love you," said Greg, and kissed the corner of Mycroft's mouth, exactly where the skin crinkled up when he smiled, rare and fleeting and soft. "I love you," he repeated, and pressed butterfly kisses to his temple, between his cool grey eyes, the tip of his nose. He fancied he could feel the formidable power of the smartest Holmes' mind thrumming beneath his lips.

Mycroft's eyes closed, the thin pale skin of his lids veiling the penetrating stare the man wielded as much as a weapon as any gun, and he sighed. "Gregory, I..."

Greg took the opportunity to kiss Mycroft on each closed eye, grinning unabashedly as Mycroft gave the him a half-hearted glare in return.

He hooked Mycroft's collar, kissing the pale skin of his neck beneath it. "I love you," he said again, with the utmost conviction.

Mycroft looked away, a red tint racing over his cheeks, his troubled gaze unable to meet Greg's eyes. He swallowed once, his Adam's apple bobbing in his long throat. "Gregory...you know...I am-" he floundered, searching for the words that he could not bring himself to say, even to Gregory, his Gregory. He cursed himself.

"It's okay," Greg reassured him softly. Mycroft's shoulders were high and tense, and he was looking away from Greg, his grey eyes- the colour of a thunderstorm just before it hit- were glaring at the threadbare carpet. His long-fingered hands were balled into fists at his side, as if he didn't quite trust himself to be able to touch Greg.

Watching him, the fear, the nervousness, the unsurety of this beautiful man, Greg's heart filled with so much love he thought he might burst. He slid his hands down Mycroft's biceps, gripping the genius' elbows as he murmured to him, "I know. It's okay."

He understood Mycroft's social ineptness, just like Sherlock, Mycroft found it very difficult to function on the same level as most other people. He was much better at faking social norms than Sherlock, and had risen to such a high level that he could draw his power around his cold, brilliant mind like a shroud, protecting the shy, fragile heart.

He had seen Sherlock find acceptance and love in John, he had seen Sherlock learn how to develop friendship that he so craved with the other people in his life that kept reaching out patiently for him.

Greg wondered how long it had been since anyone had tried to reach out to Mycroft- take him by the hand, and lead him out of the icy dungeon of loneliness and emotionless misery of his own making. He suspected it had been far too long, and wondered, privately furious at every last person that had allowed Mycroft to slide away from them, hurting so much, and never tried to fix him. He could not fathom leaving him behind ever again.

Something indescribable flashed in Mycroft's eyes, and he turned his head to stare desperately, searchingly at Greg. His lips moved, as if he wanted to speak, but at the last moment, his breath left him in a shamed whoosh, and he rested his head against Greg's shoulder, hiding his face.

"It's okay," Greg whispered again, wrapping his arms around the tall body, thin and toned from years of relentless dieting and insecurity, his left hand reaching to twine into the short red hair.

"...I..." Mycroft's voice cracked. Greg hugged him tightly.

"I know. I love you so much. Never forget I love you, when you're locked away in that brilliant, beautiful head of yours, pondering whatever secrets of the universe ordinary mortals don't know about."

Mycroft's breath huffed in reluctant amusement, his face still hidden, but Greg felt his lips curl up into a small smile against his neck.

And that was enough.


End file.
